History of Us: The Future is the Mind
by ajremix
Summary: History of Us Arc, pre-Mega Man. Few people can handle stress with grace and dignity. Friendship will strain, warp, twist... and the mind will break. Blues, Cossack, Light and Wily
1. First: Planning

The Future is the Mind  
  
First: Planning  
  
by Lady Virgo  
  
  
  
"Based on thought,  
  
moving on  
  
Creation, inspiration,  
  
forward and beyond"  
  
///  
  
It wasn't the most prestigious of colleges. It wasn't very well known at all, really. Except for those students in the scientific field. Though it was a small school, the science field was its pride and joy, and its largest funded branch was that of robotics and technological enhancements.  
  
But as much money as they were getting, it was an annoying challenge trying to get a scholarship into the place.  
  
He was lucky that he did, otherwise, because of his family's substantial lack of money, he probably would've spent a good majority of his life working just to get enough money to get into a decent university.  
  
"He's in trouble again."  
  
Nothing new. A simple statement that was heard just about every other week. Something they've come to expect from him simply because he had a sever case of tunnel vision. The professors, though not accepting his habits, had learned to tolerate the vast amounts of reports and paperwork not turned in. But only for the fact that the projects he /did/ manage to complete was done with a grace and creativity unsurpassed by anyone else in his class.  
  
Only one professor continually punished his supposed laziness, but then, that was because he royally sucked at social sciences.  
  
Of course, forgiven the fact that his good friend and roommate was going for a Ph.D. in psychology and his best friend had completed the very same course with the very same instructor a semester earlier with nothing lower than a B the whole way… It didn't matter all the intelligence and help they may have offered because, simply put, he had a knack for forgetting his assignments the moment he stepped out of the lecture hall.  
  
"Because he hates the class too much to care." They said.  
  
And the first words to come out of his mouth the moment he came into the dorm room- as it always was whenever he got in trouble by the instructor –was, "That class bites ass!"  
  
They didn't bother to look up from their own studies. "So we heard."  
  
Albert scowled from beneath sanded hair. "I should suppose so." For a university filled with 'socially inept' budding scientists, they certainly did like to gossip. Even about the mundane.  
  
Thomas set down his book, cupping his thick chin in hand. "You know, Al," he said flatly, "Ran and I /are/ here to help you out."  
  
He snorted, stalking to the mini-kitchenette to rummage around for something sharp to drink. "Help with what? The professor just has it in for me, that's all."  
  
"Yeah. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you never pay attention in the class." Randolph didn't even bother to stop jotting down equations.  
  
"Hey, aren't you two supposed to be on /my/ side?" He growled, pulling out a can of Surge. He didn't normally drink sodas, but it was in his hand.  
  
Thomas wagged his finger. "Only if you're on the winning side, you know that."  
  
"Some friends."  
  
"Come, now. We're just looking out for our best interest."  
  
"And what interest would that be?"  
  
"To sit back and laugh at your misfortune only bothering to intervene at the threat of your eminent failure?"  
  
Albert looked at the younger man flatly, a dull frown etched upon thin lips. Finally, he pointed a finger at him. "I don't like you."  
  
"Of course you do."  
  
Long ago, before their fifth year of college, actually, before they had even gone to college, Albert and Thomas had been friends towards the final years of their secondary school career. Once they had met Randolph in their opening days at the university, the three had become a tight group. Their amazingly dissimilar personalities and backgrounds producing a bond all the stronger between them.  
  
Albert Wily, brought up in the ghettos to a lower-middle class sector, born of a second-generation German immigrant woman, was the more eccentric of the trio. His genius couldn't be hidden, even at the tender age of five, and his interest in technology, biotech and robotics was a hunger that could never be quenched. Albert, because of his somewhat harsh childhood, had his growth stunted from lack of proper nutrients and had grown up short and gangly. Doe soft eyes wide and gold dusted brown hair in a constant mess reminded Randolph of a Chihuahua. Of course, once Thomas got wind of the comparison, Albert never heard the last of it.  
  
Thomas Light, on the other hand, was brought up in the typical 'American way'. Born of a middle class family in the suburbs, his parents and siblings happily content with their small town lives… But Thomas wouldn't be satisfied with that life. He yearned for great knowledge, his love of history and architecture almost as strong as his love for electronics and physics. He was much flightier than his two friends, many of his projects- created for his own devices –were often left partially completed. He preferred to be a planner than an actual doer, high-tech buildings and bipedal automates drawn out wonderfully and planned brilliantly. But never had he really though to actually construct them. That was a job left for someone else. Many of these ideas were way before his time, though, over time they took on a more human look, his favorite to date copied many of his own appearances from his childhood. Ruffled black hair, dark blue eyes, just about the only thing that was changed was the thin body structure. His inherited chunkiness was not something Thomas enjoyed at all.  
  
And finally, Randolph Cossack, sent to the university straight out of his home country- Russia –was a tall, well built young man. With his hair a thick dark brown, smoky eyes hid behind gold-rimmed glasses, he seemed, somehow, both older and younger than he really was. Whereas Albert was the spontaneous one, Thomas the laid-back, often forgetful one, Randolph was the quietly serious, responsible one, but not without his own striking wit and keen sense of fun. His parents were relatively wealthy Russians, his little sister, though constantly ill, as tough and persistent as their family had been for countless generations passed. He had gone through private schools his entire life prior and was sent to one of the more high- tech schools in Japan because of his amazing skills in metallurgy, nano and biotechnology, though he was equally versed in matters of the mind.  
  
Ever since they all met up in their first year at the college, they became fast friends if not just for their similar love of robotics. In fact, one of their final projects for advanced physics was a small automation that went all the way to the National Science Competition, the year after, their group thesis on the comparisons and contrasting factors of different automates which was published in the Science Journal.  
  
And those two projects were some of the biggest steps completed in Albert's rather large-scale dream. Though he failed utterly at social sciences, his second greatest talent was political science and he had a mind that could pump out all sorts of opinions and information on all sorts of different subjects. He was a man, though not entirely clear to the skimming eyes of the populace, was destined for a greatness of sort. He was a dreamer, since he was little, he didn't have a world mapped out in his mind. Instead, he had an entire universe laid out before him, the theocracy so meticulously planned with precision that had never been seen in another project prior. It was a place that could, in all theory, be called perfect.  
  
It was, in fact, so near to being perfect, it was almost frightening.  
  
And what was most frightening was the fact that he had almost found a way to make it reality.  
  
And when the local Tech Company began showing interest in some of his work, he could see things beginning to fall into place. Slowly, painfully into place, and he could see his life starting to begin.  
  
It all started that one day, one that promised the start of destiny, of the deceitful beauty of the future. History and future stood juxtaposed, a fleeting glimpse to those that dared enough to find it, but never solid enough to grasp, never strong enough to find. The trade show was the catalyst to the greatest attempted conqueror of mankind, later to be the force behind the greatest genocide in time. And the RSVP was the key to the Apocalypse.  
  
He exploded through the antique oak door, polish chipping as it clamored roughly off the speckled wall. Randolph was no where to be found- probably being lead around by that military girl again –so the only outlet to Alfred's excitement was Thomas.  
  
"You wouldn't believe it!" He cried, a glowing halo of vitality surrounding him that had never been there before.  
  
Thomas, understanding that- while Alfred's moods often left his actions unpredictable –this went beyond all the other emotions he had seen his friend go through. He excused himself and Alfred from his roommate where they had sat just a moment prior, watching the view screen, and led the excitable young man into the kitchenette for privacy.  
  
"What is it?" He asked in concern. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Wrong?" Alfred nearly shrieked. "/Nothing/ could be wrong! It's the furthest from being wrong anything could be!" In his hand, he stretched a torn envelope to the ceiling, as if trying to press the white stock into the heavens, to be preserved and displayed for all of humanity to feast their eyes upon. With unconscious flourish and great care, he lowered the envelop into Thomas's curious fingers. "Read it. You'll think it's all a joke or a dream or something, but it's not! It's /real/ and I'm almost going /insane/ from the fact that it is!" He cackled, unable to help but dancing some pseudo-jig in the linoleum-lined room. Thomas looked at him oddly for a moment before he slid the enclosed letter from its casing.  
  
He skimmed through the neatly typed letters in doubtful curiosity, 'blah blah'ing through the bland, overly formal words. Until he finally came to the meat of the letter. And blanched.  
  
"They-They want us to show off the EDIE?" He managed to gasp, face unearthly pale as he read, re-read and re-re-read the paragraph. It spilled out in cold, black lettering:  
  
"On behalf of the Young Scientists for Advancement of Technologies Committee, we wish to invite Albert Wily, Thomas Light and Randolph Cossack to display, at the YSAT convention held in the Southern Convention Center, New Tokyo, the Experimental Droid-Independently Engined this year as one of the special guests. Arrangements for your lodgings and transportation shall be made once confirmation has been reached…" Thomas trailed off as the words went into calling numbers and legalities, something other than that one main sentence. He looked up in disbelief at Albert, and said as much.  
  
The other just grinned maniacally at his friend, his incredulity causing the young German's enthusiasm to jump all the higher.  
  
"I know! Neither could I, but…" he waved his arms in a grand circle, trying to muddle through his excited speechlessness. "Isn't it great?"  
  
"This is… this is /amazing/!" Thomas gasped. "I just can't /believe/ it! They want /us/ to present one of our works! As a /special guest/!" He laughed loudly, the two young men crushing into an ecstatic hug, complete with the whooping, laughter and jumping about.  
  
The EDIE, as stated to stand for Experimental Droid-Independently Engined, was the semester project constructed by the three for their Advanced Computer Studies class. It wasn't yet an actually moving, three- dimensional object, just diagrams and schematics on the computer, its brain ingrained onto a chip, showing just what sort of tasks it was created for, demonstrating on the breakthrough of its mind's creation. The stout model was created out of a mixture of strong, flexible material, specially made by Randolph as an extra-credit project for his metal shop class.  
  
Thomas did the structural design, pulling the blueprints and creating simulations on various abilities on the computer while Randolph wrote up the report on its uses and advantages of its construction. Alfred, on his- as he had dubbed it –Master Control v. 5 computer, perhaps the most powerful, privately owned computer on campus, did the programming for the EDIE.  
  
It was a small thing, beyond what was originally considered 'robotic', though only to those that actually understood the true meaning behind the label. Something they found they had to clear up every time they spoke of any of their projects or ideas to anyone outside their triad.  
  
A robot is an automate, but having to be programmed for each individual thing, from the hardest technical problem-solving to something as simple as turning their heads. They were program specific, completely emotionless, the basic of basic artificial life-forms. Androids, a rather popular term in the sci-fi community, back when androids were considered to be a fictional creation, were essentially 'smarter' than robots. Not as program specific, they were built for intelligence and have the ability for basic logic solving, but, like their less developed counterparts, were still emotionless. Droids, the category in which EDIE would fall under, had a similar, but more advanced mind than that of an android. Still somewhat program specific, its problem solving abilities were infinitely greater and could take several directions at once. A break through in its programming was the ability to prioritize and, a miraculous accidental side programming, had the ability for self-preservation. EDIE was, as far as an immobile and currently bodiless computer chip could, the first step towards an artificial intelligence being able to feel emotions, at least in the way humans could understand.  
  
Alfred explained to the crowd, gazing at awe at the small, red droid- Fliptop, as Thomas so lovingly dubbed it –that its unique mindset was due to, "a break through in psychological studies." He said with great flourish, always ready to show off his rhetoric skill. "Many scientists say that the thought of 'being', or 'consciousness' is due to different chemicals reacting in the brain. What we have done, through extensive study and research, was to combine different chemicals based on the power of the reaction and effect given in various combinations and programmed the information here," he said, pointing on the large view screen to one part of the projected 'brain'. "In the regulator, which controls the reactions, much like a person can control their own emotions. However, perhaps you can think of this as an accidental mirror, the regulator can't control /which/ reaction is happening, just the strength of it and how the EDIE will react. Fliptop here," he patted the small red 'bot's flat head, "through the test runs, have shown signs of self-preservation. Through simulations, it can understand what danger is and keeps away from it unless directly ordered."  
  
"Exactly what is the EDIE designed for?" A spectator asked.  
  
"It's a storage unit. It carries and holds various items inside," Alfred pulled open the metal flap on the model's head. "Hence the name: 'Fliptop'."  
  
"But why would a storage unit need sentience?"  
  
Alfred clucked his tongue at the young man. "Fliptop isn't simply a storage unit. It and the entire production line of EDIEs were created to help hold and distribute items for the disabled. And, in wartime cases, can transport supplies to various places, ensuring the supplies' safety without the risk of injury or death to a person." The crowd murmured amongst themselves, dwelling on the answer.  
  
Throughout a good portion of the day, Alfred gave near the exact same speech, readily and confidently answering any question that was shot from the floor. Thomas and Randolph, not entirely out of supplying their own comments sporadically, later complimented their friend on not sounding entirely like a salesman.  
  
Though it might have been just what caused the gradual, yet sudden jolt into the science community. The trio and their droid were invited to several other conventions, each as successful as the one before, if not more so. And eventually came that fateful call.  
  
"Mr. Wily?"  
  
"He's not here right now, this is his roommate. Can I take a message?"  
  
"Yes. This is Dr. Fredrick of the Young Scientists for the Advancement of Technologies Committee calling about the EDIE project."  
  
Randolph's eyes widened. "Really?" He leaned against the stand holding up the phone. "This is Randolph Cossack, I worked with Alfred Wily on the EDIE project."  
  
"Oh, good." The man said over the receiver. "Then you'd like to here this as well."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"The Committee had just gotten together early this morning," he said. "We've just voted that we would like to fund the project, to help further it."  
  
Randolph would have dropped the phone in his shock were his fingers not gripping it as if they were afflicted by a bought of rigor mortis.  
  
"We will supply you with a lab, money, assistance and supplies and will be checking up on your progress as you go along. In return, once all the problems and flaws are smoothed out, we wish to mass produce the EDIE."  
  
"I…. I…."  
  
"Do we have a deal?"  
  
"I…."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
With a deeply expelled breath, Randolph nearly cried, "Yes! Yes, of course!"  
  
And thus was sealed… the future. 


	2. Second: Construction

The Future is the Mind  
Second: Construction  
  
by Lady Virgo  
  
  
  
"Restless thinking,  
pushing on  
Creation, dedication,  
now and beyond"  
  
///  
  
It had been almost 10 years since the trio's break into the robotics world and their projects gained ground-breaking attention world wide.  
Asides from the EDIE, which was an instant success among the supply and storage companies, several other small droids were placed into the mass market with similar results.  
And Alfred, with both Randolph and Thomas happily encouraging it, took charge of the industry.  
Then came that first day that everything slowly began to fall apart.  
Thomas, spending a rather uneventful and over done day of sitting around, daydreaming about beautiful, mobile, intelligent pieces of art and getting inspiration from mass media, had plopped himself on the couch and turned on the view screen to see what new creation he could come up with from the newest cheesy kids' show.  
"-is still in shock when a high-ranking Russian dignitary was assassinated during the grand opening of the transcontinental, underground rail system created in coordination with the Chinese government three hours earlier. The authorities are trying to find who had orchestrated the attack. There is reason to believe that it was done by a rival political faction, unhappy with the Russian government's recent turn to conservative socialism. At this time, though, all that is known for certain is that the UN has decided to investigate Civsec Robotics, the creator and distributor of the assassination weapon in question:"  
Coffee sprayed over the knee high table.  
The Mobility Enhanced Tunnel Operation Optical Lead....  
"-or METOOL, designed by Dr. Albert Wily, head of the Civsec Robotics technology branch. Though obviously modified, its small, explosive projectiles, designed to make precision exoplosions in rock foundations, was replaced with a high, point area pulse weapon, banned by the Second Geneva Convention. Originally used in mining and construction, mainly in smaller, more dangerous areas- tiny and sturdy and having a rather cute design -the METOOL would be the last thing one would suspect to be used as a murder weapon-"  
The view screen droned on unheeded as the phone rang and a voice, harsh and urgent, rasped in Thomas's ear.  
"Get me Wily."  
  
///  
  
The media destroyed the story with all the charisma and skill that hadn't been seen since oil drilling in the Pacific Ocean had inadvertently caused underwater earthquakes, tidal waves destroying several tiny Micronesian islands. In a matter of days, not only was Albert's credibility as a community-based scientific genius destroyed, but also out went the trust in his skill, vision and his creations by the public. Like many things before them, music, sports, television, games, Albert's droids were considered by many to be a menace to society. Many companies quit their contracts with Civsec, others destroyed the robots they had purchased.  
Droids were now a danger to human society, the deeply seeded, hidden fear finally finding room to burst its anxiety, blossoming into a panicked rush. For two years the science community, more understanding to what normal society would blind themselves of being helpful, tried to keep Civsec going, their personal underground project. But Alfred's plans began expanding further and faster than they had originally imagined, making the chairmen more than slightly wary. That, and they were having trouble trying to explain where their equipment and funds were going. The investigation was pressing too close for the chairs to handle, the pressure from high up slowly crushing them, forcing them to sever all ties to Civsec.  
It was late by the time Alfred got that call on the vidphone. He was alone in the house, working on composites for his next project.  
He pulled away from the phone, burned by betrayal. "What do you mean 'no'? The plans for the prototype were being drawn up! We managed to cut the cost and time estimate by 2%! We were planning to start construction in five months!"  
"No means what it means, Dr. Wily." The Chairman said calmly. "We've been getting heat by the Science Safety Boards. They know we're still supporting Civsec and they're waiting for you to slip up so they can wrap up the assassination investigation."  
"That was years ago!"  
"Time doesn't matter so long as someone with power is still interested. There's nothing we can do to change anything. As of 2400 tonight, we're pulling Civsec out of your possession and shutting it down. All products and orders are to be destroyed."  
BADUM. He felt his heart falter.  
"Y-You're joking." Alfred began to shake finely. "This project is my whole life and you're just going to let them take it away from me? You're going to /help/ them take it from me? Don't you know how important this is? Have you told them why-"  
"Dr. Wily." The Chairman said sternly, trying to keep from exposing his own anger and impatience to it all. "Your proposition is an ideal one, but the board does not judge on dreams, nor does the public. The hard facts are that someone used one of our constructs to assassinate a highly influential person. It's that sort of thing the board cares about."  
The frustration nearly made him want to pull his already thinning hair out. "But it wasn't any of us that did that! We know better than to-"  
"That's right, Albert." He interrupted gently but firm. "We know better, but not everyone else does and because of that, we're being punished for the world's lack of foresight and respect. I'm sorry, Albert, but there's nothing I can do. Goodbye."  
And the screen blinked off, leaving Alfred to roll the disgust like vomit in his mouth.  
Over ten years later and he was still hating his social science teacher even more.  
But, spending his entire childhood and adolescence in the ghettos taught him a thing or more about what one does when someone screws them up the ass.  
"Al... don't think me as being /rude/ or anything..."  
"Mm."  
"And, maybe I'm just imagining all this..."  
"Mm."  
"But, um..." Randolph picked up a lid to the electron pulse modulator. Civsec's logo glaringly painted upon it. "Did you steal all this stuff?"  
Alfred didn't even break a twist as he assembled the components to the table saw. "No."  
"Ah." He nodded. "Thought so." Randolph closed the lid and walked back up, out of the basement. "If the board calls, I went back to Russia."  
"Be sure to clean up your Mother Country." He called back. "Your closet's overflowing all over the floor again."  
"Of course, you realize, once Tommy gets wind of this, he'll blow his gut."  
"Good. He could stand to lose a bit of weight."  
"Um, ew."  
So maybe Thomas didn't really blow any body parts, but he certainly did let off a rather good, long ranting session. He wasn't really the most moral of all men, but stealing- especially so many expensive devices, so easy to notice missing was a big no-no in his book.  
Not only did it take an effort on Alfred's part to keep from getting the cops called on him, he also had to pull major strings to get Randolph to defend him and keep him from having to take back all the stolen equipment.  
"But why the hell did you steal all this stuff?" Thomas gritted out, hand weeding his hair.  
"Because they shouldn't have let this project go so easily." The German scowled. "It was the perfect plan and it was coming along perfectly, but they just had to screw it all up! But I'm /not/ going to let it all go to waste. I'll show them what exactly they threw away just because a few people go scared."  
"You can't expect people to invest in something they fear." But he shook his head. "What's it matter? You don't try to understand people, that's why you hate them so much."  
"Because they don't try to understand me! They're not even attempting to see what it is I'm trying to do for the world, for them. They don't see that this is the way to make the world a better place for everyone."  
"I know, Al, I know. I agree with everything and you know it. But stealing equipment from a big-name corporation like Civsec won't get /anyone/ on your side!" Thomas took a deep breath and placed his hands on Alfred's shoulders. "Just wait a while, people will get over it after the investigation is over and the committee will take us back. So don't worry."  
In a numb frustration, the other nodded. "Right. Just a little while, just wait."  
  
///  
  
"Oh how the years go by.  
Oh how the love brings tears to my eyes.  
Through all the changes the soul never dies.  
We fight, we laugh, we cry,  
As the years go by."  
So the song, old and melodic, yet beautifully fitting weaved around the Kalashnikov-Cossack wedding reception.  
Carolina Kalashnikov, from a long line of Russian military and weapons enthusiasts- including the developer of the AK rifle series so long ago -was a combat engineer in the Russian military, trained in nuclear, biological and chemical warfare. And Randolph's girlfriend for nearly 12 years. She was the typical Russian bombshell. Beautifully blonde, eyes as icy blue as her exterior and a welcoming heart so warm it could thaw an Arctic chill in minutes.  
Not long after the marriage did the trio's skill in robotics grew dramatically now that it also gained her own talent and her family's money. They were free to do all the differentiating and costly experimenting to gain all the varied and useful results to further their projects. With it, they came to realize how much of an impact chemical reactions had on the conscious and unconscious mind, making the artificial brains all the more effective, life-like and humanly unpredictable.  
Then they began finalizing the plans on the first of what would be called bioroids. The prototype, the 'failure'.  
"The gel is too thick."  
"What do you mean? We narrowed down the consistency as much as we could."  
"But look. It's getting blocked up in the smaller areas. See how it's causing the cables in the ankles to swell? It's not flowing through it smooth enough to not be a problem."  
"It works just fine in the other droids."  
"But they're smaller. Their cables aren't as complex."  
"How is this more complex? Oh, forget it. Never mind. What do you want to do? Water it down?"  
"Maybe not so much as 'water it down' as it is just taking out some of the thicker chemical components."  
"What?"  
"Just something not as essential but that's taking up space and easy to come by and integrate back into the system."  
"Like...what? Oxygen?"  
"Would that thin it out?"  
"Well... Right now the formula has more oxygen in it than the ratio of effectiveness really calls for. I don't know, really. We could just take it all out and put in an adapter to incorporate the oxygen from the air they breath in."  
"It's kind of bothersome that now they'll have to breath, but..."  
"It's not so bad, they won't need that much oxygen to 'live'. Hell, we build an effective enough adapter, they'd be able to survive off the oxygen they could filter right out of the water."  
They were still struggling for another 2 and a half years when the trio had finally broken apart with the death of Carolina and the birth of Kalinka Kalashinkov-Cossack.  
For a week the three spent in Russia, mourning and comforting the weeping family and broken Randolph. Carolina's intelligence in NBC and combustion was an invaluable asset to the research- though it would also help to build some of the most frightening terrors history would come to see. But she was still loved and trusted by all, the trio most especially for said intelligence and help. Her death was a harsh blow to them all.  
The doctors didn't know exactly how the fatality happened. An unforeseen complication in the birth, Carolina's anemic system, the sudden water breaking. But, from the force of her cry and the strength of her miniature grip, Kalinka would prove to be a strong, healthy girl. As beautiful and intelligent as her mother.  
Perhaps it was because he had never really had to live through someone close to him dying so suddenly in a way he could clearly remember. Perhaps it was because he was the one that kept his relationship with Carolina the most professional. Or perhaps it was his social skills- or lack thereof biting him in the ass again. But after a week, Alfred was antsing to return to the lab in Japan to return to his project.  
However, Randolph refused to leave the land his most beloved was buried at, wanting his daughter to grow up in the land of her heritage and the family that would love and treat her as kindly as the daughter they had just lost. Thomas understood this, of course, and persuaded Alfred that the two of them should return alone under the pretense that Randolph needed more time to mourn.  
But as a few days stretched on to a week, Alfred became annoyed at the lack of communication and called up Randolph, demanding to know when he'd return to finish up the project.  
He was denied.  
"A few days just isn't going to cut it, Albert." His voice strained over the phone. The view screen wasn't activated, but it was obvious Randolph was in a bad way.  
"But we're too far along! You can't give out on us now!"  
He rubbed his forehead tiredly, idly wondering if his hair was prematurely graying like his cohorts. "No, Albert. I am, I'm sorry."  
Alfred's temper grew audibly on the other line. "I understand how upset you are, but this is our lives you're working on. If you stop now, you'll be throwing it all away. Now, if you' talking about maybe another weekend off-"  
"/No/, Albert." His voice hardened. "You /don't/ understand. This is much more important than anything. This project is /your/ life, this is the culmination of /mine/. I hadn't planned on leaving Kalinka after her birth and isolating myself from her for the next Lord knows how many years. I want to be there for her, I want to be a /father/, Albert. I have to leave the project. I'm sorry."  
It didn't get much better after that. The conversation quickly deteriorated into an argument and that, in turn, became a shouting match, re-opening old wounds long forgotten and never truly healed.   
And afterwards, when one slammed the other off, they reflected back once the tempers cooled somewhat, and both became increasingly upset at the event. One saddened and anxious, thinking there should've been a better way to handle the situation. The other just became more and more frustrated and angry of it all.  
But it was a real blow to Alfred. In terms of the project, emotionally, socially and mentally, the fight shook him to the core. He spent a growing number of hours experimenting on the prototype, trying to find the right combinations for anything. The hours expanded rapidly and soon he would be found sleeping in the lab, then it grew to him not sleeping at all but collapsing into exhaustion every few days. He only ate when Thomas managed to get his attention, but they were just sparse bites before he hurried back to his work.  
It was as if he was filled with an unexplainable gripping terror that all his support would leave him, falling right out of his goal's fingertips. He was so close to reaching his dream, but his support was slipping from him, one after another. It was a race he felt he was almost on the verge of losing, one that he wouldn't lose without a fight, tooth, nail and life.  
And the obsession began to make Thomas doubt both his grip on his own limitation and his sight.  
He helped, though, because they were friends. Because it was now as much his project, his experiment and life pride as it was Alfred's. Because he couldn't see how it was ripping Alfred deep inside, where it was undetectable, irreparable.  
And when he tried to stop Alfred, when he had enough courage to ask 'why':  
"Because this is all I have to my name. This is the only thing I'll be remembered by."  
Because he wouldn't end as he began: No one. Worthless. Nothing.  
But Thomas still couldn't seem to agree as hopefully as he once did, what seemed so long ago. But he was equally un-inclined to quit. It ate at his mind every time he was away from the partially constructed body. The more he worked on it, the more he couldn't stop thinking about it. He became anxious, antsy, irritable. Soon he was right by Alfred's side, working just as diligently, attention wrapped and warped on it as his friend's.  
They rarely talked anymore, rarely slept, stopped or ate. When one breaked for barely ten minutes, the other was there to take his place. It was an addiction, a Siren's song halfway sung. Perhaps that was what moved Thomas to nickname it: Blues.  
Five years. Five long, struggling years they labored over the body, perfect in its formed plastics and metal, wires, electricity and fluids.  
It was near midnight that they had finished, dark as death and quiet as sin. Fitting as the two prepared to slap God in face, defying that only he could grant life and were rather smug in the fact.  
Before them on the laboratory table laid a young man, as polished and well formed as any other human male. Pale skinned, his crest of black-brown hair brushed across lidded red eyes and a serious, boyish face. The two men shifted and trembled with anxious energy, knowing what to do, but yet not knowing at the same time. The room was thick with their contradicting emotions, excited and afraid, bold but cautious. It was a dream that was waiting for one final flick of a switched, but neither of them really wanted to be the one to initiate it.  
What if it didn't work? What if something went wrong? What if, what if?  
Thomas, the occasional man of action, finally couldn't take the fight his emotions rolled inside of him. It wasn't so much as an act to a man seeing his life's labor completed, it was more as an act just to get it done, because it was the only thing to stop the uncomfortable struggle within.  
The lights dimmed slightly as energy was diverted into the central computer, booting up the bioroid in front of them. The body crackled and whirled, beeping from inside as life slowly began to move in his body. The fluid that flowed in his veins touched and lubricated his insides, activating them and coating them, sending messages back to his brain, alerting it all systems go.  
Albert and Thomas were nearly bouncing with anticipation. So slowly, a slender hand twitched slightly, shifting to grip the edge of the lab table. Just as slowly, with careful precision as the brain struggled to factor in the sudden shift of gravity's pull, angles and vertigo to stabilize equilibrium, Blues sat up. And opened his eyes.  
"I am DRN #000: Blues. All systems check." 


	3. Third: Denial

The Future is the Mind  
Third: Denial  
  
by Lady Virgo  
  
  
  
"Random patterns  
struggling on  
Creation, frustration,  
never and beyond"  
  
///  
  
  
Alfred boggled. "He's finished /already/?"  
  
"Um... yeah." Thomas answered sheepishly for some unknown reason from... /some/ where beneath the impressive pile of books.  
  
Alfred took a couple from the stack, the titles of classic literature and deep-thought histories glinting back at him from the overhead lights. "But how can he go through them so fast?"  
  
The other shrugged as best he could. "Well, he's a robot. He probably has more patience and retains information better than we can. Probably reads faster, too."  
  
It was nearing a year since Blues' activation, the long, twisted journey that it was.  
  
///  
  
"I am DRN #000: Blues. All systems check."  
  
The two scientists huddled together near the wall, so frightened they couldn't even tremble. Th-Their creation... was sitting up. And /talking/ to them. Blues just watched them passively from his position on the table.  
  
"A-Al..." Thomas said quietly, eyes wide and locked on the bioroid, speaking as if he were afraid that Blues would hear him and attack in a frenzy. "Al, it-it's sitting up. My God, Al, it's sitting up!"  
  
The fear and surprise slowly began to melt into shock, a slowly mounting, joyous shock as he grabbed Thomas's hand tightly. "It spoke. It spoke to us, it said the systems check."  
  
A tentative smile hesitantly twitched Thomas's lips. "It works. We succeeded, it really works."  
  
"We really are geniuses...! I can't believe it!" Alfred let out a hoot and jumped, hugging his best friend tightly. "We did it! We did it, we really did it!"  
  
He laughed loudly, jumping with his friend in equal enthusiasm. "It works, it works, it works!"  
  
The two laughed and jumped and hollered, so wrapped up in their accomplishment that they totally forgot that it was still on the table, watching them in their odd happiness. Blues frowned slightly at the display and thought of his 'fathers': 'Weird'. After all, his existence made perfect sense to him.  
  
"Excuse me," he asked slowly. He knew that his functioning was /supposed/ to happen, but he didn't understand their reaction. "Was I not supposed to work?"  
  
They immediately stopped, looking at the bioroid aghast. "No!" They shouted vehemently. "You're perfect! This is exactly what's supposed to happen!"  
  
His red-brown eyes narrowed. "Then why act so surprised?"  
  
"Because..." Thomas trailed off, embarrassed as Alfred coughed, looking the other way, "we weren't completely sure that you /would/ work."  
  
"Ah. I see." Not really.  
  
Alfred clapped his hands excitedly. "Now! We have to run some tests to see exactly what you can do."  
  
"Understood."  
  
Suddenly, Thomas noticed a problem. A rather important problem, depending on how one looked at it. "Er... Al?"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
He tugged at the other's sleeve and whispered exaggeratedly in his ear. "We didn't get him any clothes..."  
  
He blinked. Looked at Blues. Yup. He was stilling sitting on the lab table. Nude.  
  
"Oh. Oh my."  
  
"Yes."  
  
Blues remained in his position, watching their interactions with a hint of confusion. On many occasions, their behavior was odd to- quote, unquote -'normal' people. Who knew what it registered in the mind of a newly activated robot only programmed with socially acceptable behavior? But it was somewhat entertaining.  
  
Alfred sniffled, eyeing Blues carefully. "Well... he's too thin for your clothes, and mine are too small..." he shrugged out of his lab coat and handed it to the prototype. "Here, that'll do for now. We'll have to get you something better to wear later."  
  
"Understood." He said simply, flexing his arms into the off-white sleeves, stained with various fluids.  
  
"Now!" Alfred said with great flourish. "On with the tests!"  
  
As they had predicted, Blues was fully capable at anything thrown at him and the pre-programmed knowledge, basic and general information some of the more learned populace would know, came just as quickly to Blues as it would any other person. He seemed prefer visual learning as opposed to the other methods, reading being his most favored method though he was equally skilled in all the other areas. He was particularly proficient in political and social science and had a keen interest in history, as well.  
  
They stressed the importance of the world and reality and knowledge, keeping a tight reign on everything he was initially exposed to. From books to food-fuel to the waves his internal receptors picked up to the regulation of his rest. Then they found out something that they hadn't originally intended, something that had shocked them gleefully nearly as much as Blues's first activation.  
  
Thomas caught him one day- 'caught' in use for Blues acted as if he were doing something he wasn't suppose to be -reading a book. Not just any book, but one he had printed out in the lateness of the night from the internet. It seemed that the bioroid had a creative-curious streak and had taken a liking to old literature, out of print for countless years in tangible form and found only floating around the world in the vast Web. During the time designated for his 'sleep', Blues had slipped out of his containment tube and into one of the computer labs. There he over rid the security grids and searched the internet for the material in question, printing it out to read when he wished so he could, as he later said, "understand the experience as fully as possible."  
  
It wasn't the first time that Blues had done that. After the first three days, he had taken it upon himself to entertain his rather bored consciousness when the tests had failed to be interesting. Mindful of the doctors monitoring him, Blues would scan the other radio frequencies in the area, picking up various tips on the current human culture, pop-culture and interaction. He had also developed a rather impressive print-out library of vague and little-known literature.  
  
Thomas was ecstatic on Blues's innovation and creative mindset. Alfred was a little less enthralled but equally pleased with himself for creating such a human machine. They encouraged his reading by taking him out to the city library, checking out any book that pleased him and exposing him to the outside world for the first time.  
  
As they had hoped, no one seemed to realize Blues's true origins. All they saw were two aging men with a young, handsome youth trailing just behind them. Blues, however, noticed something that had disturbed him if somewhat slightly. Despite all the giggling and flirting of the girls, the defensive, cocky look of other young men and the appraisal of the elderly at his health, he noticed that, after first glance, they would never look him in the eye.  
  
Confused, thinking perhaps it was a design flaw that neither of the doctors had realized, Blues moved himself to one of the bathrooms in the lab. He watched his reflection in the clear, pharmaceutical mirror that overhung the sink. Peering into his own eyes, he narrowed them experimentally.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Just a pair of eyes slitting back at him- perhaps just a bit too red, but hardly anything to avoid. And the more he watched his eyes, the more he couldn't understand their reactions and soon the problem began to frustrate him.  
  
His lips began to pull back in a frown when he noticed it. His eyes were beginning to change color, redder, more intense. The fact surprised him, those orbs turning into an obviously unnatural color, almost frightening even to him. It also annoyed him, making them turn a more vivid shade. With a shove, he stalked off to find the doctors.   
  
Blues came across, first, Thomas. With a highly irritable air, the bioroid pointed at his shimmering eyes and asked lowly, "What is the meaning of this?"  
  
Thomas himself had the feeling that this would come up sooner or later, but he never really did look forward to discussing Blues' internal workings. He, more so than Alfred, treated Blues more like he was a living creature. Though he did more than his fair share of the work in construction, subconsciously he was still wary of artificial intelligence equipped with the same emotions as himself and reflexively protected his sensibility by imagining him to be an actual human. An effect that was worthless when he had to actively explain to Blues that he was, indeed, just a machine. Complex, efficient, amazingly life-like, yet a machine indeed.  
  
Templing his hands, Thomas shuffled his thoughts like notes. "As you know already, electrons are a rather large driving force in your system. The fluids inside your body- or Gel, rather -is what keeps your body going, permeating and lubricating your systems and acting as a cushion against your pain receptors."  
  
Yes, yes. All this he was already familiar with, the plans long imprinted into his databanks should he ever be forced to repair himself. In some doubtful case that neither of the doctors were there to take care of it. Or to help him establish a mild form of independence; which didn't seem that likely seeing as they didn't show any other signs to encourage such thoughts, but rather to retard it.  
  
But the effects of Gel and his functions weren't new to him. He knew all about pain buffers and dry-outs. He knew about the supposedly adverse and still unknown possible side effects the chemicals in his body would have in the long run or in his mind. But what did it have to do with-  
  
"We have found that one of the effects Gel had was that, when the chemicals mix together in a certain formula, it increases the circulation and reproduction rate of molecules, strengthening the electron's charge. It resembles an adrenaline rush in a way. However, asides from the typical adrenaline-esque side effects, the charge also causes the Gel to illuminate. We reconfigured your eyes once we found this out." Thomas finished, looking much like he just gave away a secret that would most likely bring some harsh repercussions down upon him from... somewhere. From who or how was what was making him so hesitant.  
  
Blues began to see where this was heading. "So," he slowly said, "you figured you'd use the Gel's affects to change the color of my eyes so you could gauge different mood swings, am I correct?" Dumbly, Thomas nodded. Ah ha... "And am I also correct in assuming," he prepared for a wild stab here, "that it was because you were uncertain in how I'd react to... anything?" The scientist winced. Thank you, Mr. Holmes.  
  
Blues ended the conversation then and didn't seem to care about anything except for getting his answers. Alfred had warned earlier that telling Blues anything about his construction or their reasons behind certain parts of his form and function might be detrimental to his cooperation in the long run. Thomas didn't think much of the conversation. In fact, he was certain that Alfred wasn't going to find out.  
  
That is, if Blues didn't sneak out of the lab that night and bought himself a pair of reflective sunglasses. Alfred was not in his happy place after that. Thomas wouldn't have been either if the sunglasses hadn't been because he let information slip to begin with.  
  
The tests soon moved more towards the physical. They wanted to push Blues towards his limit in endurance, strength, agility and speed. However, a majority of the time the bioroid refused to apply himself anymore than needed. That is, when he decided to apply himself at all.  
  
Alfred was becoming frustrated at Blues' refusal to comply in the tests and was quickly despairing on ever being able to properly unveil Blues to the public. But Thomas, with two older siblings and being the youngest and brightest, knew very well what a spoiled brat was and assured his compatriot that Blues just needed more time to adjust and understand how, exactly, people and society as a whole worked.  
  
Of course, Blues wasn't the only spoiled brat in the labs. Both old men realized with great reluctance that their creation was becoming somewhat rebellious and had a tendency to smart mouth them. It was as if he were going through every phase from toddler to teen all at once. And he was being a rather unhelpful and morally destructive pre-teen at the moment. Alfred, however, didn't have your usual childhood and, though he was much like almost everyone else in his neighborhood, Alfred would do /anything/ to keep from going back to that place. It was almost so traumatizing that he blocked most of it out from memory and those that he still could remember he did not like at all.  
  
And that particularly scathing remark about what he does, being so excited actually watching Blues in action, set Alfred into an inconsolable rage. So, he figured, if Blues refused to go practice, he'd /make/ him practice.  
  
If Thomas had known before hand what his best friend was planning he would've been stopped immediately. But no, in the mood he was in, next to nothing would've been able to stop him from doing anything. And luckily enough- or rather, unluckily enough depending on one's point of view -only Blues received the full force of his anger.  
  
It didn't take long for a genius to dismantle the training field and move the weapons system to a field right outside the lab Blues was known to frequent during the late afternoons. As it was, no one even really noticed it. But then, all Alfred really did was just set up and recalibrate the power, speed and accuracy of the weapons. They range everything from short-ranged, low-cal lasers to automatic weapons to area-projectile rifles and grenade launchers equipped with smoke shells.  
  
And the moment Blues stepped in the middle of the field, a computer automated war raged upon one robot.  
  
In a way, this 'exercise' revealed some very useful facts. Unfortunately, these facts helped to improve the viciousness and neigh untouchable power of future robots. But mainly, the fact that both doctors focused on with feelings on either end of the spectrum was an effect that they would later dub as 'Surge'.  
  
Blues was being pelted on all sides, though he had destroyed a good number of the weapons. However, as he finished gutting the wires out of a laser, a smoke grenade pounded into his shoulder from its high arc. Coughing from the thick, white smoke and disoriented, blind, the weapons took the opportunity to aim in; Thomas watching in horror, Alfred in a smothered glee.  
  
The smoke cleared and Blues' battered body struggled up off the ground under the hail of ammunition. On his knees, he was smashed aside as a round from a SAW caught him in the side of his face, sunglasses shattering, skidding through the air and crashing to the ground. And when Blues got up this time, he was a totally different robot.  
  
They could see through the camera that fed their view screen the hate and rage in Blues' face, teeth set in a bloodied snarl that pulsed with the Gel's dark sheen. And his eyes... his eyes haunted both doctors' dreams for years to come. They were glowing, shinning under the pink hue from tracer bullets. But his eyes were red, bright, glowing, vengeful red. He moved faster than either watchers could imagine, too fast for the camera to even pick up, only able to catch him as he paused to destroy one weapon after another. He didn't seem to feel any pain that wracked his body prior, or the occasional bullet that currently scored a lucky shot on him. He didn't stop until every piece of machinery was busted beyond repair or recognition and he just sort of slumped amid the pile of trash that littered his field.  
  
The Surge frightened Thomas. The following months after that scene was spent with him trying to keep the potency of the Gel while trying to keep the chemicals from causing Surges.  
  
Alfred, however, was enraptured by the unimaginable side effect. And he aimed to harness its power to his whim.  
  
And in the field, Blues continued to sit, shivering, trying to figure out just where he lost control. He hated the Surge as much as Thomas did, even more so because it was himself that was missing under its influence. At that time he vowed to himself to never let the Surge take over again. He grew up that day, gained more maturity at that moment than most do in half a decade. Or maybe it was more that he lost a bit of him that made him more human. So instead he became quiet, secretive, sullen and nearly impossible to approach in his most statuesque mask. He spent his time in secret practice, doing what the doctors could only guess- and wrong they were indeed. And he read, and studied, doing so at any spare moment he had until almost a year had passed and still he sought to learn more. But despite that and the years of loneliness and practice of his implacable façade, Blues still had some of the teenager in him. It was the part that shot off smart quips as easily as one would greet someone else, the part with the dark sense of humor and an odd, funny sort of fascination with the morbid.  
  
But, what he enjoyed the most, perhaps because of 'surrogate-parental-favoritism' or some shit, nothing ever beat the feeling he got when he had looked Alfred Wily right in the eyes and said: "No."  
  
Overly happy with himself, Blues walked away from Alfred's shocked face, whistling a simple little tune that ingrained into Wily's memory, etched forever with a distinct hate that would never stop tearing at his mind, even to his bloodied death. 


	4. Final: Descent

The Future is the Mind  
Final: Descent  
  
by Lady Virgo  
  
  
  
"The bleak future  
holding on  
Creation, salvation  
above and beyond"  
  
///  
  
They were making him a little brother and sister. How charming, he mused. Quaint, homey. Like having a family. It was almost flattering seeing as Blues was the prototype, the test to see if bioroids really were something to invest in. With the construction of his two siblings, it meant that he impressed them enough to believe bioroids were of actual use.  
  
The little childish part of him that Blues had become so good at ignoring snickered in his mind at the thought of 'family'. 'And just which one,' it asked of him, 'of the doctors would be Mommy?'  
  
All that time at practicing stoicism and bearing cracked and Blues couldn't help but snicker badly at the thought.  
  
At the same time, though, he felt a bit put out. Well, more than a little. It was like he was being replaced. Oh, he understood how quickly groundbreaking technology and cutting-edge machinery quickly grew to be obsolete. And a year is a rather long time for something to stay at the top of its class.  
  
Of course, when you're the only one of your kind, it's pretty easy, he supposed.  
  
But he couldn't help but think that he had brought this on himself in a way. Karma, biting him in the butt. From what he gathered, Thomas didn't really want to create another bioroid, at least not until they fully grasped Blues' potential- which he still wouldn't do for reasons as to have an army of himself on the streets, a rather frightening thought, really. But Alfred somehow bullied his friend into starting up blueprints. However, all those years together, Thomas had developed a bit of slyness of his own and managed to get a compromise. He would help Alfred in constructing not just one, but two more bioroids. Only if he had full reign in their design and purpose.  
  
Grudgingly, Alfred agreed, though it was mainly out of a sense of greed than for any other reason. He had a plan cooking up in his head and Blues knew it. He just couldn't figure out what it was and how he and his 'brethren' would fit into it. Just that one conversation- well, argument, really... but, no. After all, Thomas wasn't the sort to go along with Alfred's plans, not something like that. Subconsciously, Blues' hands knotted into fists. Was he?  
  
No, it was a possibility either way. Thomas wasn't the sort to let a perfectly capable living being able to feel emotions be mistreated. However, Blues was most definitely /not/ a living being. But he did have emotions and the good doctor often took it into consideration. More so than Wily ever would. Yet still... Thomas was just as much an idealist as his friend was and Alfred could throw a pretty good sales pitch if he truly wanted to. If he really believed in what he was saying. In fact, Blues almost believed in what he was saying. That is, if his 'ideals' and his recent treatment of the prototype hadn't paralleled so closely to a near forgotten past.  
  
Alfred called it 'progression' and 'indentured servitude'. Blues called it slavery.  
  
  
"And just what," his computerized voice seemingly giving off authentic boredom, "is that supposed to accomplish? Your declaration of terrorism or just general chaos for the fun of it?"  
  
It was the reaction Alfred had not expected to receive from anyone. Especially from one whose creation was basically for the sole purpose of carrying the idea out.  
  
It was a plan of idealism. The perfect way for people to live, be healthy, get things done and being happy and spending time doing what they loved- not worrying about everything going to hell. It was the way to bring countries together, make people happy with their government and way of life. Everything would be /perfect/, everyone agreed with it.  
  
Except for the one who was supposed to instigate it.  
  
"What sense does it make?" Blues continued, sensing the doctor's confusion within the depths of his circuitry. "You want bioroids spread throughout the world in order to accomplish goals too harsh for humans to do. Fine. You want them to do labor when it's hard. Fine. You want them put in hazardous situations, do menial tasks no one wants, you want bioroids to do all the work unpopular or too dangerous for humans. You want them to do everything so people can mill about to do what they wish. You want us to be your work horses, your dogs. But since people are so upset over incidents in the past that most won't trust an emotionless creature, so you decided to give bioroids personalities, a thought process however primitive in comparison to your own."  
  
"What are you trying to get at?"  
  
Through his tinted shades, Alfred could feel his red stare cut him down. "You're trying to rebuild the slave trade. And you're trying to use me and others like me to create your pedestal."  
  
He was shocked. How... How /dare/ he-  
  
But Blues wasn't finished yet. "You can't bare the thought of being forgotten, you can't bare the thought of someone else living like you. Conversely you can't stand the idea of someone growing up so much better than you, either. You want everyone to be equal. That's all nice and fine and a majority of the people might actually /agree/ with your methods. Consciously."  
  
"What do you mean by that?"  
  
Blues knew /all/ about Wily's... social inadequacies and was more than happy to point that out. "Competitiveness is all a part of human nature, doctor. Though someone says that they'd be happy to have everyone equal, they don't want to be on the same level as everyone else. That is the real reason why Marxism has never and will never work. The rich want to become richer, the weak want to become stronger- there is no one that wants less of a better thing, even to get rid of all the wrong in the world. Because so long as they are able to gain something they deem as 'good', they'll be too greedy to share with others. That is what true progression really is. Not this... equal utopia you dream about. That could never become a reality. Especially not coming from someone like you."  
  
One of Alfred's great eyebrows twitched at that sentence. "And just what... is that supposed to mean?"  
  
"It means," the bioroid returned the look with equal venom, "that you create beings capable of emotions, but you do not take it into consideration. You know bioroids can feel, but you don't care. You still treat me like a mindless, emotionless thing. You don't want 'servants'. You want slaves." He leaned in close to Wily, the scientist never truly realizing how a few inches seemed towering until that moment. "But I won't let you."  
  
He remembered exactly how the conversation had gone, his ears still burning from the rejection and outright insult. For two full days he went into a rage and it was all Thomas could do to keep him from physically destroying various objects and attempting to attack Blues for his 'insolence', so he said.  
  
That was just the way he was ever since Thomas knew him. Easily angered, his temper sometimes over in an hour, other times a long, slow burn out. In retrospect, Dr. Light probably realized the signs that something in Alfred's mind was bending. His temper growing quicker to break, longer to mend, his resorts to violence becoming more common and his grin slowly turning from his eccentric Cheshire trademark smirk to maniacally glowing, maliciously gleeful sneer. When he reflected on it a few years after they fell apart, he realized how it grew during the times they began working on Blues, on their research and on the other projects they created in order to test, perfect and support their bioroid project. He saw it worsen as Cossack fell out, as their supports bailed, as the media and consumers turned on them and the science community cast them out. He just... never consciously acknowledged. Maybe from fear that he'd wind up losing his best friend? Because he didn't know if he could confront Alfred on the unstable emotions in him becoming all the more unstable? Or maybe because he felt he might help his old friend lose his weakening grip by trying to stop him?  
  
He knew Alfred's past, knew his habits, knew all the problems he had and trouble he went through and how much he loved his work and how much he hated the life he was happy to forget as much as he was anxious to leave it. For years he believed it was Blues that cracked the fragile glass of Alfred's mind, already strained and shattering from so many years of stress, with his harsh rejection of Wily's plan.  
  
Alfred had spent the greater part of his life, ever since he had become a known genius at the age of 12, realizing that he didn't have to stay in that hellhole of his life, coming up with a way to prevent others from growing up like him. He spent so much time and effort into this plan, so much money, so much thought, trying to persuade others to see how he did.  
  
It became an obsession for him and as things began to turn against him, he saw his past trying to claw him back into their dark fold. And with Blues blowing him off was like cutting off the final safety between him and the life he was trying to run away from.  
  
But, deep inside, Thomas knew it wasn't Blues' fault, not entirely anyway. Perhaps it was more his own fault for the completion of Rock and Roll, not allowing Alfred to deal with their frame construct or positronic brains.  
  
As it was, the two new bioroids' construction went rather quickly. Possibly because they already understood what needed to be done, possibly because Blues watched and helped at times, an asset when something delicate was at hand and a steady grip was needed. Or possibly because Thomas was in charge of this one, wanting only simple robots, not as high-tech and glamorously equipped as Blues.  
  
They had argued long over it, neither wanting to be the one to give in.  
  
"What good can they do? How can they help the world being as weak and useless as they are?"  
  
Now that Thomas had time to think about it, that was probably his first inclinations that something was seriously wrong with Wily's planning.  
  
"What do you mean?" He growled over Rock's partially constructed body, his bare scalp pulled back to reveal the circuits and blinking lights of his metallic brain. He was built almost like a child, short with a small build. His face had a youthful expression made to smile and laugh and be happy. But fate was more than cruel to him and towards the end, Rock would find it harder and harder to keep smiling. "Rock is designed to be a playmate, to watch over children so neglectful parents won't be hurting their children."  
  
"They are not created," Alfred shouted, swinging his arm carelessly in emphasis, "as an excuse for people to continue to be stupid and make their mistakes over and over again! It's to better their way of life!"  
  
"You can't expect everyone to understand your views automatically! There will still be some people hesitant to follow your example. That's what bioroids like Rock and Roll are for! For those selfish people that can't understand the kind of world we're striving for! They'll do what people are too lazy for."  
  
"Once they realize that there are bioroids to do that, they'll get accustomed to having something else to the work for them! They'll never learn from something like that!"  
  
Light snapped, his first actual defiance at his friend and his ideals. "And what difference is there between them and those you're planning?"  
  
Alfred opened his mouth and almost immediately clicked it shut. Over and over it repeated, each time, the man getting angrier and angrier, his face turning red as he struggled with his thoughts. Idly, Thomas wondered if Alfred just didn't know how to break it down simply for him, or if there really was no difference between their purposes for construction.  
  
So instead, Alfred let out a strangled cry and stormed out of the lab in a whirl of fury, growling loudly at everything on his way. From the shadows- Blues' new found haven -the prototype snickered quietly in his mind. How hypocritical the two doctors were... Artificial though he was Blues had a better grasp about cause and effect as it concerned psychology than most. And though the two never had that sort of conversation again, just the fact that it had taken place had shaken a rift between them that would never get the chance to heal.  
  
Or maybe it was the fact that Thomas refused to help passed the planning and personality programming of the six new bioroids Wily had designed himself. Well, that was fine by the both of them. Alfred had already started on them without consulting his fellow scientist and said fellow scientist had become snide on the subject in direct relation to it.  
  
The two rarely talked to each other anymore, even when they actually had to. But that was fine by Blues. He was the cultivation of not just two, but essentially three great scientists and they had broken the proverbial mold with him. He predicted the violent end between the two men and laid out the plans of how and when his 'life' would branch out from their watchful gaze.  
  
"You shall never know what it is like to father something," Blues said ironically to himself, "until you have faced it rebelling against you."  
  
As the days grew short with hot flashes of tempers and sharp, frigid drops of temperature as the two men met, Blues finally decided that it was time to make his move. He did a final gear check, making sure everything was nominal and all accessories, though sparse, were upon him.  
  
It was a random thought, for a robot. But he decided, with a thoughtless shrug, that he might as well act on it. There was nothing that could be done to stop him, and he didn't see a reason that Thomas would have stopped him anyway.  
  
So, he went up to the paling man who looked surprised to see Blues in armor- for neither scientist had given him the armor yet, nor had they even told him of its creation. With a mysterious smile, Blues told Thomas, "Perhaps you should re-think Wily's proposal." And, without further adieu, continued his exodus.  
  
It was a rather odd thing to say, Thomas recalled thinking. But it was something he couldn't stop thinking about. And, conversely, he couldn't help but to re-run Alfred's persuasive argument through his head again.  
  
And the more he thought about it, the more he thought back on that day that Blues and Alfred were on frayed ends, and he began to think. /Really/ think, looking at the plan from all sides. The side of a scientist, of a civilian from a rough life, a cynic- someone who lived in the past, the community concerned only for the people, from the market concerned with people for money purposes only. He looked at it as a board of directors might, he looked at it from Alfred's point of view. Finally... he looked at it from Blues' point of view.  
  
Maybe Light was really the one to be blamed for Wily's final descent. Because he was Alfred's closest friend, longest kept friend, the one that understood him best. And not only did he betray him by not helping him, but also by turning his back on him. Because he knew Blues was leaving, because he watched him leave. And he watched him change one of the most difficult components to the bioroids' systems. And he had no inclination to interfere.  
  
  
Just one component, one piece of the formula, missing, changed, different. That was all that was needed.  
  
His mind worked backwards, inconceivably quick, shuffling, redistributing, recreating the Gel that took two geniuses years to figure in mere parts of seconds, thinking opposite human comprehension.  
  
Blues stood over the blue prints with a smirking grin.  
  
"I know your plans, my good doctors." He said to himself, leaving as a flutter of yellow scarf. "But no one can recreate me. Not with your intent, not with such little control."  
  
  
It didn't take long for Wily to realize what had happened and he went into a rage. The greatest streak of destruction and hate that had ever been unleashed in his long life. The Gel, the one thing that Alfred took so much pride in for creating... he knew it had changed. What had taken years to create was destroyed in seconds and would never be rediscovered in the many years to come. Alfred's reaction had been anticipated by both Blues and Thomas, but Blues had long since disappeared before the fact. Thomas, however, had left, deciding after witnessing the changing of the formula that it would most likely prudent for he and his two bioroids- children, he decided he'd call them -to move out in the near future.  
  
Though the force of his fury was destructively impressive, it didn't last very long and burned out into a seething hate, like molten steel. That was, perhaps, the most frightening part.  
  
He scowled at the bright blinking lights of the darkened lab. Being among the work he cherished so much didn't help his volatile mood any. In fact, it made him even more agitated.  
Everything he spent his whole life to complete, his defining moment, his calling in life, the purpose for his even living and his being betrayed on all sides... He had no more friends, leaving him out of fear for their own selfish, worthless careers, to start families. Even his best friend was beginning to pull away from him. His support in the science community had long since left him; his financial backing was demanding results. Even his prototype, the one to make it all happen, had shot down him and his ideals.  
  
And had broken into his plans, cleaning out some of the more risqué data.  
  
No, the only option Wily had left to him was alcohol and violence and as he tilted his head back to let that final drip of bourbon splash on his nose- there was one path laid out to him now. 


End file.
